


A Dancer in Repose

by Euhines



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Ballet, Canon Compliant, F/F, I Don't Know Jack Shit About Ballet, I Tried, Pre-Relationship, Talon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euhines/pseuds/Euhines
Summary: Sombra offers Widowmaker one chance.





	A Dancer in Repose

Tonight the _Palais Garnier_ is silent.

But not for long.

The lone, playful conductor is vibrant against the gold and red. Steady yet mischievous fingers hold a baton to direct an orchestra made of ghosts and electrical wires. The seats creak, the natural rhythm of an old building waiting for a performance. The chandelier up above mimics the sun that will not rise for another four hours. Not even a draft disturbs the curtains.

A small wave of a hand and music flows from the speakers by the stage. String, woodwind, percussion, and brass all come together one by one in a harmony made for the gods. The baton moves gracefully, although its owner a faux master.

Once the conductor is satisfied, she closes her empty fist and the music stops.

“Impressive, don’t you think?” she asks to the empty audience.

An annoyed scoff from one of the balconies says otherwise. “Breaking into the _Palais Garnier_ is not what I call an incredible feat, Sombra.” Widowmaker lands gently on the stage, the epitome of elegance.

Sombra is almost tempted to trip her. Instead, to deny that impulse, she rubs her index finger and thumb together. The slow, melancholy sound of a violin that comes from the speaker and accompanies her small pout does little to amuse Widowmaker.

“Why did you bring me here?” Widowmaker opens the front of her coat, looking around as if a target will appear for her to shoot. “I do not recall _patron_ giving us an assignment in Paris.”

“No, they didn’t.” Sombra smiles and twirls her baton nonchalantly. “However, I’m giving you an offer. One you can’t refuse.”

Widowmaker’s fist clenches at her side. Her distaste is obvious, and the glare she gives Sombra is almost murderous. “I am not here to play one of your games. You should bother Reaper since he seems to possess more patience than I.” She climbs off the stage and heads toward the exit.

Sombra turns her back to the assassin and claps her hands once. “Fourth position, _demi-plie_ ”—the harsh stomps of Widowmaker’s heels are Sombra’s only warning—“and then lift your arms into an _arabesque._ ” Sombra follows her own command with exaggerated sloppiness.

The hand that grabs the back of her neck does not phase her. It is not a hard grip, more of a feather touch really. Widowmaker’s intention is not to harm her.

For now.

“What do you know?” Widowmaker’s whispers into her ear. Calm. Collected. A promise of death follows every breath. “Do not make me ask again, Sombra.”

The baton is tossed to the side.

Sombra removes her hand from the back of her neck and spins fast enough to bring Widowmaker into her arms in a firm hold. Her fingers grab Widowmaker’s chin, forcing her to stare at the seats to the left side of the hall. “I know Gerard Lacroix sat in that very section when he first saw you. It had been love at first sight.” She continues on when Widowmaker does not attempt to release herself. “I know that you in the past, as Amelie Lacroix, had your whole life built around the way you dance. Love found you here. Fame found you here. Happiness found you here.”

Sombra lets her go and takes a couple steps back. She opens her arms wide.

“A prima ballerina. The best of her generation.”

Widowmaker bows her head, chin tucked to her chest in a clear sign of defeat. “What is this?”

“One night.” Sombra raises a single finger. “Become Amelie Lacroix for one night.”

“Why?” _She is buried beside Gerard._

Sombra shrugs before she grabs the fallen baton and climbs off stage. “I have always wanted to see you dance.”

The curtains slowly open on their own to reveal a black leotard and ballet slippers resting on a wooden chair, searching for a dancer to wear them in pride. The bane of Widowmaker’s existence observes her next move in curiosity—half-lidded eyes and leaning into her seat with the countenance of someone at ease. But despite Sombra’s nonchalant attitude, she is very, very much alert and aware of Widowmaker’s presence.

It is safe to say that she is _waiting._

 

* * *

 

Sombra whistles lowly in appreciation when Widowmaker—no, Amelie—stands before her. She had even taken the time to put her hair in a bun, not a strand out of place. However her stiff posture and glowering expression is not what someone would expect from a ballerina. Sombra is almost disappointed. Almost.

“This is ridiculous,” Amelie says flatly, stretching her legs at edge of the stage. It is almost frightening how easily she got into position. “Please remind me why I am doing this again?”

It does not fool Sombra in the slightest.

“Do you not miss your life as Amelie?” Sombra taps her baton against the armrest. One, two, one two. “You could have left the moment I gave you the chance.” She points to the exit sign. “You can still leave now if you want.”

Silence pervades for a few seconds. The walls of the opera house are oppressive and suffocating, weighing on Amelie’s bones. If she strains her ears she can hear the lost echo of an applause that have buried in the foundation of the building. Whether it is a memory or her imagination, she does not know.

Amelie brings her knees to her chest.

“I have forgotten how to dance.”

Sombra smiles and snaps her fingers. “Then I will help you remember.”

The music of _Swan Lake_ is not a gentle push into the right direction, but a vicious lightning strike that knocks the air out of Amelie’s chest.  

Sombra’s next words are like honey and rose water. A command so foreign yet so familiar, and Amelie finds that it all exists on the canvas of her mind, reflecting a decayed ship at the bottom of the sea. There is a truth in Sombra’s eyes, an ambition as great as that of Noah and his Ark.

“Come to me, _Odette_.”

Amelie does not know when she arose and moved to the center of the stage. It is all a blur, a jumbled mess, and she wants it all to stop, yet her body acts as a separate entity, a power that cannot be stopped.

She dances, after all this time, like herself again.

It is the porcelain-precision of a crumbling ballerina in an antique jewelry box. The one that reflects the sunlight off her broken arm and spins slowly to the music that has long since stopped playing for centuries. Lonely in her endeavors. A performer for no one.

Amelie’s footfalls are inaudible, gentle, and the serene expression on her face is a work of art. Once upon a time the background would have morphed into blue lakes and evergreen prairies beneath moonlight. Other swans would have accompanied her wearing glitter that outmatched the stars.

Arms that belonged to a young girl who knew naught of the fate before her, stretched skyward with the tilt of her unwavering chin. Odette. Amelie. Odette. Amelie. _Bravo._

Sombra does not know where Amelie ends and Odette begins. It does not matter. She enjoy it all the same, sitting at the edge of her seat, refusing to blink as if she’ll somehow miss everything.

While she is soft and lithe, the deadly grace of Widowmaker still remains. A shadow as deep and dark as the magic of Rothbart. Both so vastly different, yet clearly flawless and magnificent nonetheless.

Eventually the dance of Odette meeting Siegfried falls away, and it is mindless twirling and gliding that now fills the stage.

The queen of swans has drowned in the rivers of Amelie’s grief.

Sombra cannot help but bite her knuckles in anticipation.

“She’s beautiful isn’t she?” she whispers to the emptiness around her. If she were to die this second, she would not mind. It would be poetic, one to rival the tragedy of Odette and her Siegfried. She is almost irritated with herself that she cannot dance up there with Amelie.

Under the light of the chandelier, Sombra takes notice of Widowmaker’s glassy eyes as she spins closer and closer to the front of the stage. This is the first time Sombra has ever seen her cry.

And there she goes. Spinning, spinning, spinning, closer to the ledge—

 _Ah._ And so it has come, the inevitable fall of grace.

The music ends abruptly.

Amelie returns to her slumber.

Sombra runs forward to catch her.


End file.
